


Elementary

by silent_pen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 20th Century, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Detectives, BAMF Hermione Granger, Clueless Draco, EnolaHolmesAU, F/M, Muggle London, MuggleAU, Mystery, a game is afoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_pen/pseuds/silent_pen
Summary: When Hermione Granger's friend and mentor, the formidable Sherlock Holmes, goes missing, it is up to her to don the detective hat and go searching for the elusive super sleuth. However, when Hermione stumbles upon runaway Draco Malfoy, she soon realizes that there is more than one nefarious plan afoot! Enola Holmes AU. No Hogwarts. Dramione. Hermione centric. 20th c. London."Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” - S.H.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome friends and thank you for taking a chance on this story. I am so excited to start this journey with you! I hope I can do the fandom proud with my first ever Dramione fanfiction! Please leave a kudos and/or comment if you feel so inclined. It literally feeds my soul. 
> 
> NOTE: This particular chapter is a bit lengthy- I don't suspect the subsequent chapters will be to this length, but naturally, as in all first chapters, there is a lot to cover, so stick with me. 
> 
> Ahhh...I'm nervous/excited/tired/hungry/nauseous/thrilled...its just a LOT. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the first chapter.

Chapter One:

“To begin at the beginning.”

23rd August 1894  
8:03pm  
King’s Cross Station  
London, England

A particularly well-dressed man stepped off the train, his long khaki trench coat hitting just above his knees as he made his way down the platform. He kept to the edge of the railway, sweeping the side of the passenger cars as the other travelers deboarded the train and immediately started heading for the exit on the far side of the station. Most of them didn’t even notice his presence, their eyes looking straightforward, their minds somewhere else. He doubted they even took a moment to gaze upwards, marveling at the way the stars shown so brightly in the blackened sky or felt the way the cool, crisp air of the night told them of the raging storm to come with the morning.

To Sherlock Holmes, noticing such things was paramount to the human existence and cornerstone to his profession as a detective. It was of his belief that to a genius mind, nothing was too small, no detail too inconsequential. 

Gazing around King’s Cross, Sherlock felt comforted in the tiny details of the hand laid bricks towering above him on all sides until they stopped just below long, narrow iron rafters along the ceiling. The skylight ceiling helped to illuminate the platform with the natural glow of the moon and stars while the carbon infused lightbulbs shown with their orange, man made light. It was a magnificent culmination of nature’s beauty and the brilliance of some of the sharpest minds in London during the Industrial Revolution fifty years ago. 

Sherlock’s sensitive ears perked up to a rhythmic ticking noise, drawing his eyes up the eastern wall where he spotted the familiar analog clock one hundred and fifty-seven centimeters above his head. Begrudgingly, he noticed that according to the long, spindly hands, the clock read 8:03pm, making him forty-three minutes late for drinks with Dr. John Watson.

Frowning at the offending clock, Sherlock dug into his left breast pocket, withdrawing a small pocket watch, eyeing the infernal device as it read 4:24am as it had done so for the past 4 years. Hastily throwing the broken timepiece back into his pocket, Sherlock made a mental note to have Ollivander, London’s finest watchmaker, to take a look at the family heirloom. Time was fleeting to Sherlock, never really paying attention to its passing except when its significance determined a particular timeline in a case he was working on. However, his dear friend, Watson, was a devout watcher of time, never letting him forget that “time is of the essence, Sherlock.”

Glaring at the clock a second time, Sherlock balked when the minute hand had the audacity to tick against the hour by another minute, making him now forty-four minutes late for his appointment with the ever-punctual doctor. Honestly, how did anyone expect to get anything done when they relied on such an insufferable device as this one?

The scent of shoe polish and the squeak of leather soles brought Sherlock’s eyes back to the platform, immediately eyeing the short, portly man dressed as a security guard, moseying up the walkway holding a cup of hot tea as he made his rounds. It was the same guard that Sherlock saw every time he found himself on the last train to pull into King’s Cross for the night. Same guard, same cup of hot tea, same waddling gate.

The man started out at the north end of the platform, always purchasing his cup of hot liquid minutes before his rounds for the night were to start. Calculating the distance walked and how fast the man was walking, taking into the account the wafting smoke above the drink, Sherlock confirmed that the tiresome clock was correct, he was late.

Watson would not be pleased.

Making haste towards the exit, Sherlock relented that Watson’s frustrations were warranted and that he would allow his dear friend to vent his feelings seeing as the trains late arrival to the station wasn’t entirely not his fault.

Now, in hindsight, pulling the train’s emergency break moments before attacking the gentlemen across from him in the moving bar lounge was not his most well thought out plan. Perhaps that unremarkable mind might blame the insensible amount of alcohol that he had consumed prior to the incident, but Sherlock had never been accused of suffering from mediocrity. No, his choice in literally jumping across the bar had rested in his wit and intelligence, which had never led him astray before…

Well, that wasn’t exactly the truth.

Anyway, it wasn’t exactly something the man was doing that alerted Sherlock to anything suspicious, rather the persistent staring from the man’s fake eyeball. It occurred to Sherlock that said eyeball could very well be the latest attempt of the Germanic government to sleuth undetected in London’s streets. What kind of public servant would he be if he left this man unchecked to run around the cobbled streets of London?

One minute he was sipping on his third glass of whiskey (or was it the fourth?) and the next he remembers feeling three sets of unfamiliar hands pulling him off of the suspect. He remembered the man’s face paling beneath his own, one of his eyes a startling blue while the other was colored a lifeless brown. It was explained to him, after he had calmed down, that the man had suffered extensively after a coal mining incident in his late twenties and had acquired the false eye as a consequence. 

Feeling satisfied with this development in the case, Sherlock allowed the three pairs of hands to lead him back to his original seat, ordering another glass of whiskey. The bar tender was hesitant to serve him, but ultimately decided that keeping Sherlock busy by searching for the bottom of the glass was in the car’s best interest. Sherlock lost himself in his drink and was unaware of the dozens of eyes that occasionally glanced at him from time to time as the train once again made its way towards London.

Constant vigilance, a voice rang through Sherlock’s head, reminding him that it was his very wit and intellect that granted him the honor of being one of Britain’s greatest detectives, if not the best. And as such, it would be unfathomable to ignore even the slightest twinge of his gut telling him that something was afoot. However, this means that on more than one occasion, Sherlock’s instincts had gotten him into some rather nefarious situations, spurning him into his own form of self-made chaos. Honestly, the whole thing was exhausting to think about and that is why Sherlock felt himself repressing the incident on the train to the far reaches of his mind. According to the insidious clock above, time moved forward regardless.

Stopping to allow a group of pedestrians to exit the station before him, Sherlock felt his ears perk up to another peculiar sound, only this time, this particular sound was neither familiar or repetitive in nature. In fact, based on the sound’s frequency and pitch, Sherlock deduced that in was human, child-like even. Instincts flaring to life, Sherlock cursed his impeccable skills as a detective and his subsequent, insatiable curiosity as he turned to his left, his eyes already scanning for the cause of the small noise.

It didn’t take him long to notice the form of a small child sitting alone on a nearby bench several feet away, a large, stuffed toy blocking their face from view. Based on the child’s clothing, a plaid shirt and dark brown pants, to anyone else, the child would appear to be male, but to Sherlock’s keen eye, the braided hair and the softer features of her hands as they wrapped around the toys smaller body clearly indicated female.

Sherlock took a quick glance around the platform, searching for anyone in the thinning crowd who had similar genetic markers to the young girl, but no one in the immediate vicinity even resembled a modicum of familial compatibility. Honestly, Sherlock had no idea what he was looking for as most of the girl’s facial structure was obstructed from his view as she sat with her face buried in the toy’s soft, plush back. Never one to miss any crucial details, Sherlock noted the wildly untamed, brown curls sticking out of the braids and concluded that such a charming anomaly had to be genetic. However, his initial scan of the platform left him without a corresponding older male or female with an identical bed of hair. Unfortunate, really.

It wasn’t until Sherlock noticed the young girl’s petite frame freezing in a rigid line that he realized his feet were carrying him closer to her. He made the conscious effort to slow his pace as to not further startle the girl, after all, he didn’t know what he was going to do once he got to the bench. He never made it a point to speak with young children as they seldomly could keep up with his ramblings, instead asking archaic questions about what a dead body looked like and if he could tell a person was lying just by looking at them.

However, this particular young lady was displaying above average observational skills, identifying his approach long before he even noticed his feet moving forward and hiding it well. Sherlock began to suspect that it was perhaps society’s greatest form of ignorance to underestimate a child’s ability to observe and blend into their surroundings when needed. Case in point, this young girl had made herself invisible to nearly everyone in the emptying train station, except him, but he had observational skills far more evolved than that of your mundane traveler.

Sherlock came to a stop just before the side of his left knee hit the bench, swaying on his feet as he ran through different things to say to the young girl. It was odd to him that he even wanted to speak to her, let alone insert himself into her affairs. He was neither her guardian, nor her protector, but he would be lying if he said his intrinsic curiosity of the lonely girl didn’t intrigue him slightly.

Here goes nothing, Sherlock thought. “I beg your pardon, madam, but would you care to share this bench with a worn traveler?”

He waited for a response, a sign that the young girl had heard him despite him nearly whispering his question above her head of wayward curls. He was about to repeat the question when her tiny shoulders lifted up and fell on a small huff of air before she moved to her right, clearly a spot for him to sit beside her.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly, sitting down beside the young girl who still hadn’t lifted her face from the now soggy back of the plush animal. Weren’t children innately curious, Sherlock wondered? Perhaps whatever ailed the child was far greater than any questions she might have regarding his presence. 

She was rather upset, Sherlock noted. He could hear the muffled sounds of her sobs as they were pressed forcibly into her stuffed animal, her arms wrapped tightly around its bare torso as if it held her only sanctuary in its fuzzy, little paws. Maybe it did when its owner was a sad, little girl with no parental figure in sight.

Sherlock, never feeling comfortable in the outward appearance of grief or sadness of any kind, began to count things in his mind, offering the girl his silent comradery as her sobs shook her smaller shoulders. It was his job to solve cases by using his intellect and wit while the great Dr. Watson often took on the many faces of their clients or victims of crimes committed against their person. Still, Sherlock found himself sitting there beside the distraught young girl and felt an odd prickling in his chest as he listened to her sniffle into the back of her hand whipping across her nose.

Knowing that logic and facts always made him feel better, Sherlock turned inward, rationalizing his next course of action with the levity and fragility of a bull in a china shop.

“In my opinion, crying is an exuberant waste of time,” Sherlock offered, turning so that his whole body faced the smaller one next to him. “It is of the opinion of many scientists, that our bodies begin to dry out as we get older, therefor making it harder to produce tears as we age.” Sherlock waited a beat, thinking on his next thought and then shrugged his shoulder. “I find it nonsensical to waste my time on anything for which I cannot improve upon while I am alive.”

The girl didn’t respond, however, this in no way impeded Sherlock Holmes in his rant, never one to leave a thought half explored. “I often wondered if this evolutionary tactic was nature’s way of hardening ourselves as life undoubtedly becomes harder with age- disease, loss of loved ones and then our own inevitable death. Either way, expending what little moisture our body has is both outrageous and self-destructive, is it not?”

Sherlock turned his eyes back to the young girl at his side, predicting her still and silent demeanor to persist, but was startled when he found two brown eyes looking back at him curiously. He recovered quickly and smiled, noting the old tear tracks muddying her otherwise round and rosy cheeks. He features were definitely female as he predicted and based on the curvature of her petite nose and the size of her frontal bone, the young girl could not have been more than six years of age.

What drew the detective closer to the girl was the small spark of curiosity reflecting in her rounded eyes, a mirror reflection of his own intrigue looking back at him. He could see the way her eyes tracked his every movement, observing him as he sat there and wondered what sort of hypotheses and conclusions she was making upon his person. He could already tell that this young girl was gifted and he felt himself becoming even more obsessed with knowing what was going on in that small, bushy head of hers.

The young girl bit her lower lip in thought, making one final assessment before speaking. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” She kept her head down, her left cheek pressed atop the soft bear still clutched to her tiny chest. Her voice was small, almost non existent, their close proximity his only advantage when it came to making out what she said. He could tell that she had been crying for a while based on her voice’s roughness, as if her throat were clogged with old tears of heartache. He felt his own chest constrict with that thought, but quickly moved on knowing that the only thing more uncomfortable to him than someone else’s tears were his own.

“Ah, where are my manners?” Sherlock apologized, bringing his right hand up between them. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, but you can just call me Sherlock. Watson believes that calling people by their first name implies a sense of familiarity and trust.”

The young girl stared at Sherlock’s hand still hanging in between them, licking her dry lips as she weighed her options. It didn’t take her long by the look of determination on her features and the way her shoulders straightened when she brought her own right hand to meet his.

“Hermione Granger.” Her name, that was the only response he got before she withdrew her hand and settled it back around her stuffed companion once more.

“Hermione Granger,” Sherlock repeated, weighing the name on his lips, “What a peculiar first name.”

Hermione shrugged as she turned towards her bear. “It’s the only one I have.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “I suppose it’s a bit arbitrary- our parents choosing the name we are meant to live by before the person even has the chance to form any personality.”

“That’s not to say that naming things doesn’t have merit,” Sherlock added as an afterthought. “Society does find it useful to label things as a way to control the uncontrollable, to define the chaos of this bizarre experience we call living. Do you not feel the same, Ms. Granger?”

At Hermione’s silence, Sherlock looked down to see that Hermione’s attention hadn’t been on him at all in the past minute or so. Normally he would have been put off by anyone unwilling to divulge in a bit of introspective debauchery such as this, but it was the keen look in her eyes as she searched the area around them that had his own eyes scouring for something he could not see.

Her search didn’t last long as Sherlock noticed the downward slope of her of shoulders and the heaviness of her eyelids as the light beneath them began to dim. He watched as she physically crawled into herself, bringing the bare impossibly closer to her chest. He felt the unfamiliar twinge in his chest again and rubbed at it subconsciously, growing uncomfortable with the heaviness that now took up residence in the area. He shifted in his seat, hoping to displace the concerning annoyance as he crossed his right leg over his left.

But the unfamiliar pang lingered and he noticed that his breathing became a little more labored and was that moisture burning the back of his eyes? 

Startled that this benign case had resulted in real life consequences in the form of bleeding emotion, Sherlock’s head swam with thoughts of distracting the young girl from her sorrow and perhaps even his own. He was acutely aware of the time, but even Watson, a family physician, would recognize the predicament found himself in. Again, not entirely not his fault.

Preferring the dead and the alluring enigmas of a missing person’s case, Sherlock Holmes rarely had the misfortune of consoling another human being when their disposition wasn’t in gratefulness for his expedient work or in a police officer’s reluctance in accepting his help in an ongoing investigation and therefore, this situation needed careful analyzing and organizing of the information before any course of action could be taken.

But then again, Sherlock Holmes was not a man who relied on what little bit of patience he had left in reserve. Instead, he preferred an organic approach, feeling out a situation as it came to him. And in this moment, there was only one thing he wanted to know.

“So, who is this dashing character you cling to so tightly?” Sherlock asked, tapping the soft fur atop the animal’s head. “I believe he skipped out on introductions. Shy, is he?”

Hermione turned her red rimmed eyes back to Sherlock, a frown of confusion on her petite features before she looked back at her plush bear. “He’s not real, Mr. Sherlock,” she explained, “Theodore is what the American’s termed a teddy bear and he is my best friend.”

“A teddy bear and your best friend?” Sherlock asked quizzically, “I do say I am fairly intrigued, Ms. Granger.”

“You see, I know about this particular toy’s invention because I read all about them in one of my father’s news clippings he received from his colleague who lives in the United States of America,” Hermione clarified. “Once I had read the stories a dozen times, my father wrote to his colleague and a month later, Theodore arrived.”

“It must have been quite the compelling story,” Sherlock mused, a smile forming over his lips, matching the young girl’s beside him as she looked back at her stuff bear. “And Theodore is quite the name to live up to.”

“I named him after the twenty-sixth President of the United States,” Hermione supplied, “Theodore Teddy Roosevelt.”

“President Roosevelt was known as an excellent large game hunter,” Hermione continued. “One November day, the President was participating in a hunting party but was unsuccessful in finding a single bear to shoot.”

“Some of the men in the hunting party took it upon themselves to wrestle a bear and tie it to a tree so that the President could claim his kill for the day,” Hermione said, looking down at the bear. 

“Americans,” Sherlock breathed heavily, “Deviously reckless cowboys the lot of them.”

“But,” Hermione implored, “the President refused to kill it, citing that such an act would be extremely unsportsmanlike and was a decision far beneath that of the leader he wished to be for his country.”

“It sounds like this President was a wise and honorable man,” Sherlock surmised, “I fail to see the connection from Roosevelt’s bear to the one in your arms, despite the obvious.”

“In this case,” Hermione smiled, “It is the obvious. An American couple who created and sold children’s toys created the first teddy bear after hearing the heroic tale of their president, dedicating the toys inception to their commander’s honorable choice to spare the life of a defenseless animal.”

Hermione thought for a moment more before adding, “I also like to think the bear represents so much more than one man’s decision on a random November’s day.”

“And what is it, Ms. Granger,” Sherlock asked, “That you’re insightful brain thinks this bear also represents?”

Hermione hugged the bear to her small chest, her eyes turning back to Sherlock as a small spark warmed them from beneath her dark lashes. “I think that we are meant to be reminded that it’s not always important to be recognized for our actions, but to be celebrated when someone chooses to do the right thing, even when said decision doesn’t directly benefit us.”

“Selflessness.” Sherlock whispered the word and Hermione grinned up at him before turning her attention back to the bear. Sherlock was left to look over the small girl’s features. She had a gentle slope to her cheeks and a small, upturned nose. His initial impression had been correct- this girl was no more than six years old, but her mind was far beyond that of any other child her own age. She was already a better conversationalist than 96.34% of her peers and perhaps most of the people three times her age.

This time Sherlock’s eyes followed young Hermione’s when they once again turned towards the now empty platform. He knew she was searching for someone amongst the growing shadows and it pained him to realize that she wouldn’t find what she was looking for. However, if the incident on the train had taught him anything, it was that this was not the day to jump to conclusions first. So, in a rare form of self-preservation, he restrained himself and set his mind to sleuthing for any clues first and foremost.

“My goodness, look at the time,” Sherlock gasped as he pulled out his father’s timepiece. It was as he expected- 4:24am. “Is it not past your bedtime, Ms. Granger,” he asked, “I daresay, where are your parents?”

Hermione took in a long inhale before she released it on a shaky breath. Sherlock didn’t miss the way her lips trembled as she started to speak. “They told me to wait on this bench with Theodore,” she explained. “I’ve been waiting for a really long time.”

“I don’t suppose you have seen them anywhere?” she added hopefully, a small light of hope brightening her dark brown eyes. That unfamiliar twinge in his chest was back and it was all he could do not to take the girl in his arms and cry with her.

To the ordinary person, one with less than desirable skills in observation, Hermione’s question would have been ludicrous. However, Sherlock Holmes had never been accused of being ordinary and so it was just a matter of reflecting on the catalogued faces in his mind’s eye that he remembered passing once he got off the train. Unfortunately, none of the other passengers on the platform had resembled this small Ms. Granger more than 5.3% in facial similiarities.

Sherlock could feel the ache in his chest swell and his tongue become heavy as he experienced the truth as a sort of burden for the first time in his life. “I’m afraid not, my dear,” he replied sadly, “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Sherlock,” Hermione barely whispered as she buried her tears once again into the furry back of her companion.

“Perhaps they are simply running late,” Sherlock offered. “I often find myself at a loss for time. Maybe your parents had an audience with the King? I assure you such an honor would stunt the very arrogance of time passing to be in his presence.”

There was silence from the bear and then a small “maybe.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock added. “I suppose you wouldn’t know if they are compliant in any degree of debauchery, would you?”

Hermione sniffled before turning her tear-filled eyes to Sherlock. “My parents aren’t criminals, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Right, right, of course,” Sherlock backtracked, not wanting to further offend the young girl. “That leaves only two choices, I’m afraid.”

“Which are?” Hermione asked curiously.

“The circus,” Sherlock explained. “I once had a missing person’s case that lead me to a violent ring of acrobatics and sinister, laughing clowns.”  
“The circus?” Hermione wondered out loud, her small brow furrowing in thought. “I don’t think my parents would runaway with the circus.”

“Of course not, my dear girl,” Sherlock laughed. “They were clearly kidnapped.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide with concern for her parents.

“Still,” Sherlock explained, “The probability of both of your parents being absconded without you noticing is slim.”

Hermione seemed to recognize his logic, and calmed down, but the concern on her face didn’t go away.

Leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees, Sherlock took a deep breath. “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no atter how improbably, must be the truth.”

Sherlock watched with sad eyes as the small frame of Hermione Granger pulled itself into a tight ball, her knees coming up to her chest as giant sobs racked her body.

“They left me.” 

Sherlock was silent, not knowing what to say in the moment. Perhaps there was nothing to say in the moment and so he sat there watching helplessly as the young girl poured out her sadness in the back of her furry friend.

Sherlock reached out with a hesitant hand, not knowing what he was going to do, but felt a warmth spread in his chest as he ran soothing circles along the girls back as she let her tears loose. He couldn’t help but notice the way his large hand totally engulfed her backside. She was so small and vulnerable and he wanted nothing more than to protect her from anything that might cause her harm.

He hadn’t expected the surge of protectiveness for the young girl beside him, but it was there nonetheless. He knew nothing of raising a child in today’s society, but knew he would do his best if the young girl would have him. Perhaps they both could stay the growing feeling of loneliness they both shared. 

“Hemione,” Sherlock whispered, moving his hand to her right shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. He waited for a moment, giving her time to clear her tears before she looked him.

When her eyes found his, he smiled before he stood up, lifting his hand towards her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Hermione looked at his proffered hand, biting her lip as she weighed her options. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as he watched the tumultuous thoughts run behind the whites of her eyes. He didn’t know what he would do if she rejected his offer, he couldn’t simply leave her here alone.

However, Sherlock didn’t have to wait long until a small hand wrapped around his larger one. He felt the ache in his chest explode into a million pieces, a sense of weightless lifting his weary bones as he smiled down into watery, uncertain brown eyes.

Hermione allowed him to help her down from the bench, her own shoes hitting the pavement with a soft thud. She glanced at him for a moment, just studying him for what seemed like forever and then the most beautiful and miraculous thing happened--- 

She smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_“A game is afoot.”_

_The next morning…_

_7:37am_

394 Wingardium Lane

_Marlborough, England_

Hermione felt her thoughts wonder again to the pile of unanswered letters in Sherlock’s office as she mindlessly whisked the eggs in front of her. It was only when her whisking hand began to spasm with the familiar sting of writer’s cramp that Hermione finally that Hermione finally stopped beating the frothy eggs.

Hermione felt the tightness in her shoulders as she leaned her hip into the counter, ticking off the imaginary list in her head that needed doing today. Today’s list wasn’t any different than any other day, the contents being relatively mundane, but still, even the monotonous predictability of her life was beginning to wear her down.

Every morning started out the same. She would arise before the detective, quickly preparing a breakfast for the both of them before their day would begin- Sherlock heading out to meet potential clients are to follow a clue and she would take care of Sherlock’s correspondence and some of the chores around the house.

By midafternoon, Hermione found herself surrounded by large texts and tomes that talked about fascinating subjects such as the magnetospheric changes in the Earth’s polar regions, commonly known as Aurora Borealis, or the northern lights. Finding time to practice her linguistics in French, German and Latin languages was a must and then when Sherlock returned from his errands around early evening, Sherlock would teach her the basics of self defense.

After an hour dedicated to replying to the pile of letter growing on the detective’s desk, Hermione’s mornings were often spent with her nose buried in books. She loved learning about history, or math, or practicing her Latin, just the act of learning had become one of her favorite hobbies.

_“Do not let anyone tell you that a woman cannot hit as hard as a man, Hermione,”_ Sherlock had instructed her as he straightened her right wrist in it’s striking position. _“Self-defense is a state of mind,”_ he added, crouching to stand in his own fighting stance. “ _It’s a mindset that even when you feel small, or afraid, your life is worth defending…always.”_

Hermione had nearly landed a successful right hook along Sherlock’s unguarded jaw, but using his above average reflexes, Sherlock moved out of the way just in the nick of time. She smiled, remembering the laughs they had shared that day in the garden as Sherlock instructed her with different offensive and defensive maneuvers. It was perhaps the only part of their days where they both felt they could let loose even if the training was physically strenuous at times.

Hermione began to cut a couple of oranges in half, squeezing the juice from their juice vessicals as the eggs fried in the pan atop the stove. A mad rhythm of footfalls behind her alerted her to the detectives appearance from the hallway, muttering to himself as he looked down at the floor distractedly. Hermione let him mutter about, walking strange paths through the kitchen and living room as he tried to piece together an imaginary puzzle only he could see.

“Odorless and tasteless,” she heard him murmur under his breath causing her to turn around, facing him as she quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

“I hope you aren’t talking about my cooking, Sherlock,” Hermione warned playfully as she brandished the small cutting knife she held in her hands. “I would hate to have to tell the Sheriff that there was an unfortunate accident this morning.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing, turning his eyes, surprised, towards her as if just noticing her presence in the kitchen. His look of brief shock turned into kind eyes and a warm smile as he looked over her. “Hermione, you magnificent, charming, clever girl.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow towards the detective as she pushed a small glass of orange juice across the table. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Holmes,” she mused as she watched him finish off the glass in three succinct swigs. She sighed when he slammed the glass back down on the table, a triumphant smile on his face.

“I guess this means you won’t be staying for breakfast?” she said eyeing the baked goods cooling on the counter next to the sizzling eggs.

“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock apologized. “There’s a rather nefarious game afoot that needs my most ardent attention.”

“Ah,” Hermione replied, “and you are nothing if not ardent.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes, yes. You are quite right, as always, my dear Hermione.”

“Will you be back before supper?” Hermione asked, as she towards the stove to turn off the heat. She didn’t feel up to eating eggs anyway.

“Like clockwork, Ms. Granger,” he responded cheerfully as he turned towards the lounge chair that held his coat and hat. Once at the door, he stopped, tipping his hat in her direction but Hermione caught him before he could slip out with the sound of his name.

“Catch.” She threw him a small blueberry scone and watched as the detective caught it with ease before he bit into it and headed out the door.

Shaking her head, Hermione looked around her and at the mess she had better start to clean up before the rest of her day could proceed.

______________________________

_4:32pm_

Hermione grew restless, settling her eyes sternly against the page, rereading the first paragraph of her newest Oz book before she found herself, once again, looking at the clock on the mantle.

Seven minutes. It had only been _seven_ minutes since the last time she had checked the time and frankly, she was starting to worry. She had nearly chewed her bottom lip raw with her overactive imagination.

Sherlock had yet to return home from his outing earlier and hadn’t sent her word that he would be later than normal. It’s not as if Hermione didn’t think the detective could take care of himself, per say, it was the fact that Hermione knew that the overly zealous sleuth could inadvertently get himself into quite the mess on his own.

Hermione never allowed herself to jump to conclusions. Sherlock had told her once that such assumptions rarely made the person a trustworthy source of information or intelligence and Hermione prided herself on being level headed and intelligent. She would leave the reckless and drastic behavior to Harry.

Still, she couldn’t help but worry about her friend. She knew she would be fine on her own for the next day or so, Sherlock had made sure that she could take care of herself, but that didn’t mean she was ready to go out into the world alone. Her eyes flicked over to the door, hoping that she would see his smiling, bright eyes staring back at her as they had for many years now, but he wasn’t there and she was- alone once again.

* * *

_10:02pm_

Hermione huddled against the chilling air, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands as she staired out the window. It was dark out, almost too dark to see anything beyond the immediate surroundings of the house, but Hermione just knew she would be able to see the outline of a man should one come walking down the path that led to the house.

She took another sip of the steaming liquid and found her eyes growing heavy with her tiredness. She didn’t want to sleep, not until Sherlock returned, but she didn’t know how much longer she could last. She was exhausted from all the chores she had done as well as the added stress and worry she had put herself through on Sherlock’s behalf.

She had nearly paced a hole in the floorboards of the living room when she decided on brewing a hot cup of cocoa and waiting for him on the patio, but as the night went on, she found that it was useless. He wasn’t going to show up tonight.

With one last look across the lawn and down the dirt road, Hermione felt her heart squeeze in her chest as she turned back towards the front door. She prayed to a God she hoped was listening that she would find Sherlock tomorrow morning in his usual place at his desk and this whole nightmare was just an overreaction on her part. She could admit that her thoughts had turned from logical to emotional as the day went on and would feel much better tomorrow when she wouldn’t have to worry as much.

Walking into the house, Hermione rinsed out her drinking mug and placed it in the sink, not feeling like cleaning it and placing it where it belonged just then, something that was out of character for her slightly OCD tendencies.

She walked over to the single lit candle she had lit earlier that evening and used it to walk upstairs to her bedroom, where she tried to sleep the day away, but instead fell into a fitful sleep until the sun rose again.

__________________________

_The next morning_

_6:57am_

Hermione stared at the desk, riddled with mounds of paperwork, unopened letters and days’ worth of newspaper clippings. She had woken up early, eager to see if Sherlock had made it home safely, but was greatly disappointed by his continued absence. Hoping to find something that would lead her to his whereabouts, Hermione stepped into the detective’s office and took a seat at the desk.

Knowing that a busy mind was a less worried one, Hermione set out to clear the large, oak desk of the chaos, starting with the letters and newspaper clippings into neat piles before storing them in the drawers beside her.

The first drawer contained ink pens and small pieces of paper for quick access for notetaking, so Hermione settled the worn newspaper clippings into it in case Sherlock wanted to look over them again. The second was compiled with many different case files Sherlock kept on hand, nearly filling the drawer full, but Hermione managed to squeeze a couple more into the chaotic filing system. Maybe sorting through the drawers would be her next project if Sherlock didn’t return this morning.

Moving on, Hermione placed the rest of the files in the third drawer, but something made her pause when she heard an unfamiliar scraping sound. Hermione looked towards the drawer and found that the bottom piece was at an odd angle. _A false floor,_ she thought questioningly to herself.

She emptied the drawer of its content and pushed the wood piece back into place. It slid easily under her hand and she took a minute to study it before she wrapped on it with her knuckles, startled to hear a hallow sound in her ears.

_Definitely a false floor then._

With a slightly shaking hand, Hermione tilted the bottom of the dresser once more until the wooden floor came off its hinges showing another inch of space beneath the false covering.

Her eyes widened when she saw a small envelope, with white crisp edges and her name scrolled out in Sherlock’s handwriting. With shaking hands, Hermione picked up the letter and read her name over and over again. She felt a ball of anxiousness curl into her stomach as she swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She battered away the voices in her head that played on her worst fears, reminding herself that Sherlock wouldn’t just abandon her and leave a note. She knew he cared for her more than that, but, as the voice in the back of her mind reminded her, she thought her parents had cared more for her too.

Carefully unsealing the envelope, a small piece of paper and a photo slipped into her hand. Her eyes immediately went to the scrawl on the paper and her eyes ate up every word.

_My dearest Hermione, the letter wrote,_

_If you are reading this letter, it means two things, precisely. One, that you are, like me, quick to find things others cannot and two, that I am not with you to simply tell you what you have found. It abhors me to think that I have left you at all, but the case that I am working on has taken a rather seedy undertone, one that I had wished to spare you from ever coming across. However, since you have proven yourself a most worthy understudy, I implore you to follow your instincts and use what I have taught you to survive in this world for it is full of mysteries and obstacles. You know my methods, use them, dear girl! You are as brilliant as you are brave and so much more than I could ever hope to be._

_Please do not worry about me. I find that when I feel as though a lead has grown cold, it is best to reflect on the beginning. I know you’ll understand my meaning, for you are surely the brightest woman of your age._

_With affection,_

_S.H._

Hermione read the short letter over and over again until she was sure she could recite it verbatim, only stopping long enough to glance at the small photo that had been sealed within the envelope.

A fond smile curled her lips, staring down at a younger version of Sherlock, holding the hand of an even younger version of herself. They were standing underneath the sign reading “King’s Cross,” where she had first met Sherlock, heading for a train destined for Manchester and the World’s Fair that was taking place there.

Hermione’s fingers felt odd impression on the back of the photo. Random letters were scrawled across the back: DROYNYBO. She felt her face scrunch in confusion, no familiar with the acronym. She amusing thought that perhaps in one of Sherlock’s more rushed mornings, he had accidentally wrote something related to a case on the back of this picture without properly identifying it as a photo and not a scratch piece of paper.

Shaking her head at her mentor’s careless actions, she turned the photo around to their smiling faces once more.

The photo reminded her of simpler time and her heart craved for Sherlock’s familiar smile and warm eyes. She had grown to love the detective like a second father and cherished their time together. She tried to hold back the tears as the familiar stinging of them began to prick at the backs of her eyelids, but it seemed a useless endeavor. She let them fall, fall for her lost friend and for her uncertain future ahead of her.

____________________________

_1:18pm_

Hermione swayed impatiently from one foot to another, letting out a long exhale through her nose as she waited for the police officer in front of her to stop making small notes in his notepad and to look back at her.

“All you have for me is over six foot, brown hair and blue eyes?” the officer said, looking quizzically over his small notations.

“I didn’t think it was necessary, Officer Burns,” Hermione added with a little bite. “We both know you know how Sherlock Holmes is.” She stared at him, with an upturned eyebrow, daring him to contradict her. “He’s been instrumental in helping to solve numerous cases over the years, at your request, I might add.”

“More like getting in the way,” Officer Burns muttered before straightening in his chair. “I can’t file this report until he has been declared missing for 48 hours. However, I will need your name and age to file the report if needed.”

Hermione chewed her lip, weighing out the pros and cons of telling this man anything more than he needed to know.

“Hermione Granger,” she responded, obediently, before swallowing a knot rising in her throat. “I am sixteen years old.”

Officer Banks’ eyes flew to her’s before he sat his pen down and opened his mouth to speak.

“If we are unable to find the detective,” he started, apparent caution in the way he spoke to her, “I’m afraid you will have to be relocated.” At Hermione’s startled eyes, he tried to calm her, “Just for your protection, ma’am. Its unsafe for a woman of your age to be living by herself.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you,” Hermione gritted, as her heckles rose. It was typical of the male species to see her as some damsel in distress without a male to look after her. Besides Sherlock and Harry, Hermione really felt that the male species was really made up of chauvinistic idiots.

“I’m sure you could ma’am,” he said unconvincingly, “But Beauxbaton’s School for Girls is a fine institution for young women in your situation.”

“An orphanage?” Hermione asked incredulously, “You can’t be serious?”

“Beauxbaton’s is known for teaching young ladies how to become acceptable members of society when no one else is there to teach them,” the officer told her. “If Sherlock isn’t found tonight, then I’m afraid we will be left with no other choice. I will write to the headmistress tonight.”

“But I am free to return home tonight?” Hermione asked, her mind whirling with thoughts of lesson in manners and how to keep quiet, something that Hermione Granger never had much to do with.

“Do you have some where you can stay this evening?” the officer asked, “Perhaps a friend of the family?”

“The Potters!” Hermione chirped up, “I can stay with them. They are like a second family to me.” She didn’t tell the detective that the library owners were away and it was only their sixteen-year-old son at home. She knew he’d throw her in lock up before allowing that particularly scandalous idea.

“The Potters are good folk,” he said, nodding, “I’ll allow it. Expect to be picked up around 8am tomorrow morning if Sherlock hasn’t been found.”

“I understand,” Hermione replied, turning towards the exit, her mind already formulating a plan.

______________________________

Hermione didn’t go to the Potter’s house. Instead, she found herself at her own place, back in the familiar seat at Sherlock’s desk where she had found his note to her. She told herself that she wouldn’t wait to be carted off to another life, not knowing if Sherlock was okay or not. She had to find him, but didn’t know where to start looking for him.

A thought occurs to Hermione, her thoughts going back to something the detective had said in his secret letter to her.

I find that when I feel as though a lead has grown cold, it is best to reflect on the beginning, it head read.

Her mind stopped as she remembers the photo that had been with the letter Sherlock had written her, the only word in the whole letter that was underlined was “reflect.”

DROYNYBO. The random letters on the back of the photo he had left all of a sudden didn’t seem so random.

_“You know my methods,”_ Sherlock’s voice counseled her from somewhere in the back of her mind. “ _Apply them.”_

“It’s a reflection cypher,” Hermione gasped under her breath, quickly searching the contents of the drawers for something to write with. She knows of reflection cyphers; she’s read all about them in texts she had read over the years about military spies in wars and secret alliances between kingdom back in the early ages. Still, she knows that finding reflecting alphabet she needs to decipher the code will be hard. She will have to think like Sherlock. Surely, if he meant for her to decipher anything, he would have left a clue.

Hermione took out the photo that had been left for her, analyzing it for anything that would stand out to her, but all she saw was the two of them standing underneath the same sign that she had seen over and over again throughout the years.

_King’s Cross,_ Hermione read out loud in her head. The place where it all started for them. Her mind froze- their beginning.

_Reflect on the beginning,_ Sherlock’s words said. King’s Cross had been the first place she had met Sherlock, _the beginning._

King’s Cross had to be the cipher word, the “k” in King’s Cross acting as the first letter in this reflection alphabet.

With a shaking hand, Hermione wrote out the alphabet A to Z, then, underneath she wrote the reflecting alphabet, only this one would start with the letter “K” for King’s Cross. Matching up the subsequent letters, it looked a little like this:

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z A B C D E F G H I J

Matching each letter in DROYNYBO to the corresponding reflection letter in the cypher alphabet, Hermione prayed her instincts were right.

Her eyes lit up when the translation read: THEODORE.

Hermione jumped out of the chair, nearly throwing the chair onto the floor in her haste as she bolted for her room. Theodore, the name of the Teddy Bear she held onto the same day she had met Sherlock.

She skidded to a halt when she came to the doorway leading into her room, her eyes instantly finding the worn teddy on the bookshelf above her desk, having sat there for the past eight years. She walked slowly towards the bookshelf, her throat running dry as she took the familiar teddy bear into her hands. She examined him like she had never done before, the toy looking familiar yet different all at once to her. It was a bit unsettling if she was honest with herself, but at the moment, she was afraid that she was being rather foolish to think that Sherlock had hidden anything in her old and worn toy without her notice.

She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary when it came to the bear softness or the reflection of her person in his black eyes, but when she brought it to her chest to squeeze it as she had that first day at the King’s Cross station, something happened that hadn’t before- there was a crunching noise.

She stiffened, her eyes immediately searching for any small opening that would allow someone to hide something within the small plush teddy. She found it, a small, but finely stitched suture line sewn into the back of her childhood best friend.

Carefully, Hermione picked apart the threading, hearing the odd crunching under her fingers nails and then blinked when she found another small piece of paper and a wad of cash stuffed in the back of her bear.

She quickly discarded the money and unfolded the envelope. Her eyes widened when she found only a few words scribbled down. A name, Watson, J and a location- London, England. However, it wasn’t the name that particularly caught her off guard, but the symbol in the corner of the paper. It was a picture of a bird, the same bird that she saw on the letter that Sherlock had refused to acknowledge the other day.

She looked back at the small note in her hands. Was this Sherlock telling her to come find him? Did he expect her to rush after him and help him to solve this case? The thought stirred something deep within Hermione that was almost terrifying and exciting at the same time.

Hermione licked her lips and weighed her options. She knew that she didn’t have much time as the police officer would surely make good on his word and search for her to send her off to the orphanage should she still be here in the morning. She couldn’t have that. It seemed that her only option was to follow the clues and assist Sherlock in any way that she could, she only hoped that she wasn’t too late already.

Hermione could feel the fear begin to subside as she started making plans in her head, feeling a sense of excitement well up in her chest as she started gathering the things she would need for the next several days. She supposed her first destination was London, to search for the man whose name was scribbled on the piece of paper she was still holding.

Hermione smiled widely. _A game was afoot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A game is definitely afoot, and if you've seen the Netflix original this is based off of, then you know who will come into the picture soon... ;)


End file.
